


Forget about that Yurio

by understanding-agape (Princess_andromeda)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M, Russian Weekend, Translation, victurio weekend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 06:29:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10758630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess_andromeda/pseuds/understanding-agape
Summary: [AU] "Regularly, us guides, we adopt the image of someone close to whom we are supposed to protect, so that they will not feel scared upon seeing us." Yuri did not seemed fazed by the fact that Viktor could go through his cheek. "What makes you think I am him?"





	Forget about that Yurio

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Olvídate del otro Yurio](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/286947) by gemini in tauro. 



> Translated from Spanish with the permission of the original author: gemini in tauro. (Thanks Sweetie!)
> 
> Title: Forget about that Yurio.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t know the name of the creator (since I’m still not interested a lot in the series), but I do know that Yuri! On Ice does not belong to me.
> 
> Comments directed to Princesa Andrmeda: Since your birthday is coming in two months and I have to give you something, I’ll give you something from the fandom that still gives me the oogie, so you can see just how much I appreciate you. I suppose you’ve already guessed where the title came from?
> 
> However, your condition for writing my Edward/Herman was that I read a Victurio, and I didn’t want the lemon so… well, here is my solution. I hope you enjoy your early birthday since I won’t give you anything physical because I’m stingy and… bye!
> 
> Fair warning: Like around 80% of Victurio fanfiction, this one won’t be “sugar n’ spice n’ everything nice”, and this is actually the first time I have written such sensitive subjects… on full. If necessary, please refresh the browsing window.
> 
> Fair warning II: Since I haven’t read anything of these two, nor seen the series, it is somewhat (very) possible I wrote them Out Of Character.

 Forget about that Yurio

* * *

 《 _The same night whitening the same trees._

_We, of that time are no longer the same.》_

—Tonight I Can Write The Saddest Lines;  Pablo Neruda .

* * *

 Viktor Nikiforov entered tripping into the emergency room. It wasn’t very often he received news that had Yuri and the hospital linked, and so something in his brain balanced it quickly and made him overreact. As fast as the traffic jam had allowed him to arrive the place, taking huge breaths, looking to fill his lungs as he paid the cab driver and enter still running.

 _“Tell me in which room is he!_ ” He demanded, in a trembling mix of Japanese and his much accentuated mother tongue. Seeing him enter, with his disheveled hair and the mad look in his eyes, it would’ve made anyone just roll their eyes and pass him by as they deemed him insane. Nonetheless, the reception lady, who so happened to be learning foreign languages and having decided for the one to belonged to a famous person, had managed to understand him, and so she pointed out to him, with the utmost respect possible (Japanese overall), that he would have to wait a couple more hours in the hospital, due to the fact that the operation was yet to be done.

Hence you see him waiting.

What a pity he had wasted three hours of his life.

He hadn’t gone home immediately. Anyone could’ve predicted that.

And whilst he drowned emotions —which were idiotic, really, they took the fun out of everything he did. He could just imagine what he would be able to do had he not have such a huge ego, a slim figure to take care of and a small leftover of dignity… those three tied him up— in the first sake he managed to find —a bar was a couple of blocks away from the hospital, they apparently sold and lived good— he was going over and over again repeating the very same words of the doctor.

He wasn’t dead, no. Yurio was still alive, though unconscious. His mind had skipped all the technical stuff that he had yet to understand —and would probably never understand anyways— from the medical area and went directly to his keywords.

_Apparent sleep. Zero activity on the left area of the brain._

**Coma.**

Not knowing whether his head was spinning from going so many times over those words or from such an enormous intake of alcohol, he passed a hand through his hair, he passed a hand though his hair, and gently tried to comfort himself, saying that he was acting wrongly, that his me from before, that ungrateful brat, would feel embarrassed to see him there, drink in hand, and he sighed.

Arriving to his apartment, he said hi to Makkachin, and Makkachin said hi to him too, eager to see his owner was back already. Viktor greeted him, not cheery in the very least. At seeing his owner’s state, the dog did the same, and tilted his head, confused.

Viktor didn’t think about it for too long, and decided that he would go directly to sleep. In the morning he would have the price of two sake bottles luring over his head, though at this rate it couldn’t feel good.

No, he couldn’t feel. Not even when the Swiss razor —quite an expensive birthday gift, exotic and of good taste… most of the time— had slashed through the flesh in his arm. He was pretty sure the color inside his bathroom would never be this pristine white again.

“Viktor-san… I received the message from Yuri telling me to… Viktor-san!”

And right after Yuuri had seen the disaster that he had made in his bathroom —poor white tiles, he would miss them— he had fallen into blissful nothing, dark and cold, just as he expected to.

Oh, how he would’ve wanted it to last.

He woke up hours later (though it felt like just seconds), with a strong smell of antiseptic, white lights blinding him and the loud beeping noise of the monitor, the one that checked the supposed beating of his heart, that at this very moment only lived with mechanical movements.

He would’ve liked to stay that way longer. The light was too brilliant and reality too dark.

What made him retreat from that peace that he had just found, was a tongue, raspy and full of drool and love. He pretended to be asleep for a few more seconds, even if the dog drool was starting to turn itchy. That had alerted the figure in the couch, who seemed to be glad his idol was still alive.

He would’ve liked for it not to be that way. He was pretty sure he would’ve left Makkachin in pretty competent hands, ain’t that right, Makkachin?

When the doctor, some Asaho Miyamoto —it was always the same thing with these Japanese guys, there was a Yama, there was a Moto, it was oh very obvious they loved hiking and books (there was a reason one of the characters that named the country was that of books)— arrived the room and explained to him that despite the fact that he was still alive, had Yuuri gotten to his apartment a few minutes later, he wouldn’t be there, with all the blood loss and all those technicalities that his brain decided to block yet again, Yuuri was still a newbie in all this, he thought, whilst he saw the guy nodding with energy and responded everything he said. Miyamoto- _sensei_ said he would be let out when they considered he was no longer prone to have another “accident” like the one he just did, which would have to be approved by the psychiatric the hospital had —take a wild guess… he was named Tanaka (he must be one of those weirdoes of rice and swords, he could be sure of it).

He agreed, and the doctor bid him goodnight saying the nurse (whose name started with something… akin to tree) had his dinner. No razor-sharp cutlery, you know, only those plastic, made-for-children ones, really cheap at that too and so horribly big and annoying.

The dish in question was made out of red bean that according to what they said helped to the recovery of the so-called red-cells, but in that moment, sunk into its own juice along with a small dosage of salt and, he was sure, some sugar, gave his body an overwhelming sense of abandonment, that ran through all the arteries, veins and blood vases available in his body, in the same amounts as his blood. Who would’ve said that biology and philosophy were such great friends. Viktor couldn’t be sure, since the inside structure of the body was not really his forte and he failed every single letter in a poem.

Night had arrived, Yuuri said he couldn’t stay with him (compromises with whomever-he-was-with-at-the-moment-and-whose-identity-was-unknown) and said goodbye, sneaking Makkachin out along with him, promising to feed him in the morning. Viktor smiled, pretending that the Japanese had taken a great weight off his shoulders.

When the curfew arrived, Viktor was already into the fifth depth of sleep. Well, something like that. He changed depths. Now the first, now the fifth. Now resting, now staring at the ceiling. He had seen so many flaws within the white concrete that night that he would give a huge list to whoever was in charge of repairing the building.

Hours passed, and all his restlessness had made itself present in the form of insomnia and hyperactivity, he decided opening his eyes. Hardly, he had managed to get his hands over his head (and that would make the IV get out, but who cared anyway?), managing to find a more comfortable position to be in, and he smiled, somewhat void.

After some time of being in that same position, he turned his face to where a shadow was lurking, whom he recognized instantly, his blond hair had no comparison, his gaze a little dry and his skin seemed to glow. After staring a little, he returned his gaze to the ceiling and let out a condescending chuckle; a _glas wen_ invading his face.

“Dear god… I must be losing my head, am I not, Yurotchka?”

The figure on the other side of the room didn’t laugh along with him —and he hadn’t expected it to, it wouldn’t have been his Yuri if he had—, instead turned to stare at him, so quietly that Viktor almost feared it was a hologram placed there by the doctors. To complain, he let out another condescending laugh—ah, how he hated it.

After a few minutes where there only the remnants of Viktor´s (now awkward) laugh could be heard; he decided to clear his throat. “Since I suppose this is a hallucination, might as well use it to my advantage. How have you been in your coma, Yurotchka?”

Yuri didn’t answer. Instead, walked a couple more steps to get closer to him, and Viktor felt that his heart could beat out of his chest at any moment. And not in the sense that he welcomed his closeness, but dreaded it to some extent, though he wasn’t quite sure if he liked that constriction in his chest.

“What makes you think that I am him?” He answered, the words had gotten out so serene from his lips, almost languidly so, that Viktor did not believe it possible that one person have such an aura that professed tranquility in itself, but that at the same time made him sick to the stomach and made him want to get away from him, as he approached the bed. “I’m your guide, Nikiforov Viktor, and there are people who wish harm to fall upon you by their own means.”

The person in the bed’s eyes widened, astonished. Though his unconscious was telling him to get away, that that creature could be one of those, the ones they said, that wished him harm. But neither his legs nor any other part of his body seemed to obey him, instead, he had sat and waited for him to come close.

“Are you” Viktor trailed off, one hand nearing that angelical, almost see-through face that was in front of him, and he became surprised as that same hand passed through his cheek, but, unlike all beliefs there were about ghosts (if he was one, that is), being his hand inside that plasma, he felt a warmth sensation filling him “…real?”

“Regularly, us guides, we adopt the image of someone close to whom we are supposed to protect, so that they will not feel scared upon seeing us.” Yuri did not seemed fazed by the fact that Viktor could go through his cheek. “There are times in which the person does not recognize us, because we protect them since childhood. But in your case… well, you hadn’t really needed protection… until more recent dates… I suppose you remember them, do you not?”

Viktor stopped paying attention to his hand that was between Yuri’s cheek and teeth. He stared at his bed, for a few seconds, embarrassed and nodded. “…of course I do…”

“I said it already and I do not plan on repeating it, Nikiforov Viktor,” Yuri went on again, this time staring at him with a mix of worry and fury. “What you were about to do wasn’t the smartest way to go about it. There are whom desire you, and I am no longer referring to those on the human world; they were dangerously close to achieving it were it not for the help of Katsuki Yuuri.”

“Yuri…”

The blond shook his head. “Nikiforov Viktor, many of my kind believe that you are not deserving of my protection, and after witnessing such attempt you did a few hours ago… I do not believe so either.” How could it be that he was able to be serene and at the same time, contain the fury of the 7 dark princes, contain God’s wrath, His holy punishment… all with only changing the tone those last five words had been spoken in? “I have favors to repay, however, so I find myself deprived from making that decision, and therefore must remain by your side, until the moment your soul has reached the time to part.”

Viktor gave a bursting, condescending laugh, there had been too much condescendence in only one night. “And now what? Are you going to tell me there is a paradise up there? That God waits for me to reach His side, never to leave it?”

“God only exists if you so wish to believe in him.” The figure answered, and even if the tone he was using couldn’t be classified as defensive, the gaze that _Yuri_ was directing to Viktor looked more like a threat than an answer. “Unfortunately, it is not the same deal with demons. It is way easier to see them within people, than seeing those who have light inside them.”

“Way too deep coming from a creature willing to protect me,” he mumbled quietly to himself. “Yuri, listen, I…”

“Forget about that Yuri Plisetsky, Nikiforov Viktor. Forget about him.”

“But…”

“Or at least,” he interrupted again, “forget that I am him.”

Viktor started thinking. If it had been Yuri —his Yuri— by this point surely he would be already yelling, probably the same things (that he would forget about him, that he would not see him again), but he wouldn’t have that creepy aura around him, that seemed to consume everything inside the room, be it good or bad. It wouldn’t be warm touching him, it would be colder than his beloved Russia, his skin would not be shining, or at least not in the supernatural way this Yuri did—though it would also be a supernatural being’s one, thus that one objection did not fit in the frame at all.

“But… why?” His hands were damp, and his cheeks were two tear cascades. He belatedly realized it, the fact that he didn’t want to accept it.

“I was asked to protect you, as a favor to repay, but this is more than enough.”

“You,” he sniffled, he didn’t understand where those _tears_ had come from, maybe a secondary effect of paranormal encounters, “the guides, do you only adopt the figure of… dead people, or could it also be of the quick?”

“If you had not known the answer to that, then you would not be expressing such _razliubit._ ”

Viktor tried to smile, even though his lips had cracked into a grimace that explain all the things the face in front of him couldn’t.

 _Yuri_ sighed, and with one of his hand, cupped his cheek. Viktor felt his breathing come to a halt, surprised that he was able to touch him but he couldn’t touch him back, and saw in his eyes an all too familiar glimpse.

“The person who sent me, Nikiforov Viktor, asked me a last favor, something for you to remember them by,” Viktor didn’t understand it pretty well, even after those lips, so forbidden, so angelical, so glorious, softly pressed against his, so mortal and unsavory,

He had barely taken in the situation, the kiss had already ended, Viktor, as if getting out of a daze, had his eyes widened and observed _Yuri_ , who stared back, as if inspecting the reaction of a really unstable experiment. Viktor felt his lips pucker slightly, not enough to be noticeable, but enough to send _Yuri_ the signal that he had understood.

“Tell them that their gift is more than appreciated, to whoever sent you,” he answered, and he thought he had never felt so in peace with himself… with the world, the demons and angels inside him.

He couldn’t remember much of what happened the night after their encounter. He was pretty sure that the light coming from every single millimeter in the room was overwhelming, not like it was a new thing; he could listen to Yuuri coming and going to tell him good morning and to mention that doctor Miyamoto, as well as many of the nurses that had to tend to him because the alarm had activated, apparently his IV had gotten out.

“You know, Viktor-san? If it hadn’t been for Yuri’s message I wouldn’t have made it in time.” Viktor stopped pretending he was fine and started at Yuuri, confused. “Speaking of, how has he been lately?”

Viktor didn’t have the opportunity to answer, Miyamoto-sensei entered the room and said good morning, asked him if he had problems sleeping at night and if he needed everything.

“I just need one thing,” the doctor nodded and awaited for the order to come, “if I’m not mistaken, this is the same hospital where Yuri is, isn’t it?”

“Indeed, Mr. Nikiforov, though I suppose a visit to patient Plisetsky would not be the most adequate thing in your state and what we are striving in this institution is…”

“I’m not talking about that, Miyamoto-sensei.”

“Huh?” Yuuri frowned his brow, unknowledgeable in regards of the situation. “Hospitalized? What do you mean?”

“Then, Mr. Nikiforov? What is it that your want?” Inquired the man.

“He’s suffering, and it pains me to see him in such state, I plead you to unplug him.” Yuuri stared incredulous, but dared not say a thing. The doctor looked curious, and then nodded.

“We received a call from his parents at dawn. We already had their permission but were not sure if you wished to know.”

The months flew by, and Viktor had learned to live with the spontaneous apparitions of _Yuri_. There were times where months could go on without a single trace, and others where on full weeks he was woken up by him in the middle of the night, daily, to find him to a small distance to him, saying he did that to make others know he was protecting him. And even though Viktor couldn’t see them (he did not have some super sense that let him know it) he believed him, because he was his guide. And that’s what guides were for, right?

It had been four months since the last time he had seen him. He touched his hair a little nervous, it was a little below the shoulders, even if he had tied it in a ponytail. He sighed, and in it he could appreciate the low temperature in the weather. Oh, how he had missed his beloved Russia.

Since he had arrived from Japan a week ago, upon arriving he had breathed in and had said so beautifully in his accentuated language _I’m finally home._

After a couple of minutes of observing the establishment he decided to enter.

Despite everything that he had expected, it was warmer on the inside than the outside, and even if it came as a surprise, he couldn’t help but smile thankful.

He had no idea how much time had passed, with his skates echoing in the stadium, so big like his conscience and so void like his chest; but there was a moment, when he was able to see him again. After some long four months, he saw him again. Smiling like someone who just saw an old and longed friend, he saw him from the other side of the court and made him some gestures that he was coming over. In a matter of seconds —bless acceleration and gravity, things that he did understand— he was leaning on the railing.

“It’s good to see you again,” the other one nodded, and got close to him, so Viktor would no longer have to yell.

“There has not been anyone out there lately with plans to take you, so there was really no necessity for me to handle the situation,” he said, as if that explained completely his four-month absence. Viktor didn’t say anything to it, it was true that he hadn’t been assigned to him originally, so he could only thank that he was there, now. “As of now, there is only someone here that wishes something from you.”

“Are you kidding? And what would they want from me?” He imagined demons, those out of French or American videogames, great horns, half-goat half-human, grotesquely disfigured and arms so little they might as well be T-rex’s.

“They are on the other side of the stadium,” he declared, self-assured it was this way. “Though I can assure you they are no threat to you.”

“Do you think they will make themselves visible to me?” Viktor asked, with a feigned smirk. _Yuri_ (like he had started calling him again at some point) didn’t imitate the gesture, but only nodded.

“If you wish to see them, you will take my hand and will be capable of it.”

Not having much to lose, he grabbed the offered hand and immediately saw him disappearing. He arched an eyebrow, confused, not knowing at the beginning what was happening. It was gratifying, months later, to know he hadn’t lost him forever, nor that they had fused together. For a moment, confusion was the only thing his brow had no qualms of showing.

As the guide had indicated, he observed the other side, where he supposed was whomever it was. His eyes widened in clear shock, though his gaze turned into a softer one quickly, sweetness, reminiscence and a melancholy he didn’t know he possessed.

Dressed in a white suit —a variation of the one he had worn at _Agape_ — and hair so beautifully styled, was Yuri. And if it hadn’t been for the sound of the skates he would’ve though he was an angel, since from his suit wings were born and he was floating mere millimeters above the ice.

Tchaikovsky could be heard faintly, even if only Viktor’s ears were capable of relating such music —so tragic, so emotional, so beautiful— with such movements —calculated, graceful, divine— the blond was making. There were times where music could never be as emotive like the way it was played was capable of being. In this case, Tchaikovsky playing the last song of a swan, as beautiful as it was, could never match what Viktor saw Yuri was capable of showing, what he was capable of expressing. Tchaikovsky tried to imitate a swan, whereas Yuri had managed to turn into one.

And so, as the music neared its end, Viktor could see the figure of his dear kitten become see-through, and little by little, disappear; on such a point where, with his arms placed in position number five and his legs on position number four, Viktor could only be sure of having seen him one second… one… second, that he wished to transform into eternity.

“ _... До свидания… дорогая…_ ” he murmured, to the nothingness that had replaced the spot once belonging to Yuri in his heart.

He did nothing to avoid the sensation, it was calming and soothing, it was a realization, that even if you didn’t see it, it did not mean it wasn’t there. That even if you couldn’t touch it, it wasn’t only a product of your imagination when he could once touch his cheeks, and strived to confess. That just because it didn’t hurt him anymore, it didn’t mean he had stopped missing him, loving him.

Because he did —and he felt extremely cheesy for it.

* * *

  _《Years will trickle by. We will engage eternally in battle. We will never be together. We will die, again and again, longing for an impossible end._

_But as I’ve said, you should know by now: I will never give up》_

—Eternally Never Yours;  EchoEternal .

**Author's Note:**

> Translations and/or clarifications:
> 
> (1) Glas wen : s. (from Wellish) Literally, “blue smile.” A smirk.
> 
> (2) Razliubit : v. (from Russian) “Falling out of love.”
> 
> (3) До свидания… дорогая: “Goodbye… my beloved.”
> 
> (4)Music Yuri was skating to: Suite from Swan lake.
> 
> Ending notes: thanks for reading until here, as I have already said up there, I'm not really fond of this fandom. It seemed too… um, false to me. Even though so, to Daniela it didn’t. That's why I’d like if you would (and I plead you to) respect the work. You can criticize my plots, my character management, my word management, but not the pairing. Just like you have one, Princess has one, and I would like that just as she makes the effort to respect yours, for you to respect hers; I apologize beforehand if spilling the soup like that, without having prior (direct) contact with the other participants in the fandom, was a little harsh.
> 
> If you liked it, I'm very glad you did, I hope to have the gall again to get into this small hole, maybe even staying.
> 
> Bye!
> 
> —gem—


End file.
